


the art so long in the learning

by takingoffmyshoes



Category: The Tudors (TV)
Genre: (kinda), (probably), Friends to Lovers, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-27 00:09:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14413443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takingoffmyshoes/pseuds/takingoffmyshoes
Summary: Henry cannot allow Charles to die.





	the art so long in the learning

**Author's Note:**

> the backstory to “by all this I mean love,” which no one wanted but which i have selfishly provided nonetheless.

It started with a sudden storm, frigid rain driving winds that caught them unawares on an afternoon ride that had, in all honesty, been ill-thought-out and at Henry’s insistence. The colour of the clouds had seemed far less oppressive than the atmosphere of the palace, and he’d snatched Charles up on his way to the stables. “Come,” he’d snapped, and not given Charles time or space to protest. He was somewhat calmer once they’d placed a considerable distance between them and the palace, but it was then that the skies opened.

“Take my cloak,” Charles had called over the sudden downpour, already shrugging out of it.

“You’ll freeze!” Henry had called back, but Charles simply nudged his horse closer to Henry’s and thrown the cloak around the king’s shoulders.

“One won't be enough in this, and if someone has to freeze, then it’s better me than you.” He’d said it with a smile, damn him, hair already plastered to his head and rain soaking through garments not meant to be worn out-of-doors because Henry hadn’t been willing to wait.

They rode back to Whitehall with all haste, but they’d gone far afield, and the rain hounded them all the way. By the time they arrived, Henry was undeniably damp even under his twin cloaks, and Charles… Charles was gone, pale-faced and dark-lipped with the cold, so numb and distant that he’d had to be helped down from his horse and half-carried away into the warmth. Henry made sure that he got properly dried off and spent the night in a warmed bed, but it wasn’t enough. 

Not enough to absolve him, and not enough to undo the damage that had been done. He went to check on him the next morning, only to be snarled out of the room by a flushed and irritable Charles, who had always preferred to keep to himself and lick his own wounds. That preference, along with Henry’s admitted role in Charles’ nascent illness, was enough for him to cede the battle.

Charles was a strong young man; he would no doubt be fine in a few days, even if his pride took a little longer to recover, and Henry’s presence would make no difference save to infuriate them both.

He did not, however, expect that Charles would withdraw so entirely, or that he would take Compton and Knivert with him into his sullen isolation until Henry was forced to seek out their company for _himself,_ at which point he realised how terribly wrong it had all gone.

“Where is Brandon?” he snapped, striding into his dining rooms one day to find only one of the three anticipated men present. “I haven’t seen him in a week. And Compton? I know that _he_ at least hasn’t wandered off somewhere and died.”

Across the table, Anthony took a deep breath. “Henry,” he said, and damn if that wasn’t nearly enough to set off his ire in full, but he reined it in. “Charles is sick and has refused a physician," Anthony was saying. "William is looking after him until he changes his mind or forbears to argue.” 

Irritation notwithstanding, Henry snorted. “If those are the choices, William could easily be waiting until Judgement Day.” Instead of relaxing into the banter, though, Anthony stiffened, and seemed about to speak again, then changed his mind, looking torn. Henry’s irritation warred with concern and ceded a messy truce. “What?” he demanded at last. “Whatever it is, Knivert, just tell me.”

Another deep breath in, and a long breath out. “Charles is very ill,” he said at last, softly. “He didn’t want us to tell you, insisted that we not, but… He’s getting worse, Henry. We’re starting to fear for him.”

It was as if a great stillness had settled over the room. Not calm, but something far more menacing. Dread, perhaps. Maybe even guilt. “Take me to him.”

Charles’ room was half-lit, the drapes all but drawn and the fire smoldering low and hot. William was pacing its confines when the door opened, and all that was visible of Charles was a tumble of bedding around an indistinct shape. “Henry,” William started, startled into speaking, but Henry held up a hand and brushed him aside, Anthony trailing in after him. 

Closer to the bed, the shadows resolved themselves: a mess of dark hair low on the pillow, linens and blankets pulled up almost to the nose; Charles lay huddled on his side, breathing harshly and shivering despite the warmth of the room. Henry leaned over and laid a hand on Charles’ shoulder, giving it the lightest of shakes. “Charles?” No response to the soft question. “Charles?” he tried again, and this time brushed the backs of his fingers over the high arch of the cheekbone visible above the bedclothes. It seared against his skin, sweat-slick and burning, and fury overwhelmed fear in a white-hot surge. “Why the _fuck_ doesn’t he have a physician?” he shouted over his shoulder. Under his hand, Charles jerked awake and promptly began convulsing around deep, wracking coughs. “Compton, send for mine,” Henry snapped over the sound. “Knivert, _explain,_ but for the love of _God_ get him some water first.” 

The door slammed in Compton’s wake, and Charles forced out a particularly painful-sounding wheeze, struggling against the bedclothes. He managed to extricate himself enough to brace himself up on one arm, but the other wrapped tight around his ribs and he made no effort to straighten any further. Anthony pushed a cup into Henry’s hands and went to help.

By the time he was leant forward with Anthony’s hand on his back, his coughing had become so deep that Henry feared Charles would make himself sick. “There’s a bowl on the table if we need it,” Anthony called to him, clearly thinking the same. There was nothing he would rather do _less_ than what was being asked, but fortunately it did not come to that. With one final gasp, Charles went limp, slumping back against Anthony, head lolling against his collar, breathing uneven and ragged. “Water,” Anthony beckoned, and Henry stepped forward and held it out to him. Charles looked up at the motion, and his eyes, when they met the king’s, were bloodshot and shadowed. 

“Henry,” he said hoarsely, and had no breath to say more.

“Water, Charles,” Anthony reminded him, one arm holding him steady against his chest and the other holding the cup to Charles’ lips. “Come on, drink some. William’s gone for a physician.”

Charles pulled back; not much, with Anthony’s arm around him for support, but enough to stall his attempts to make him drink. “No,” he rasped. “No physician. Henry, it’s fine. You should go back to—”

“I’m not leaving you again,” Henry said, because he couldn’t say _This is my fault_ or _Please forgive me_ or _I’m the only one who should be holding you like that_. He could only promise to stay, and so he did.

♢

He had been summoned to the sickroom this morning to find Charles shifting restlessly against his pillows and muttering his name at intervals, interspersed with rasping coughs.

He'd calmed somewhat with Henry's presence, and now, a handful of hours later, is sleeping fitfully under Henry's watchful eye. Well, under Henry's metaphorical eye: he's actually looking out the window, watching the snow drift down. He could only bear to sit and stare at Charles for so long, not with Charles looking so little like himself. Damp tendrils of hair clinging to flushed skin, chest rising and falling rapidly with shallow, wheezing breaths, shadows pooling around his eyes and in the hollows of his cheeks. He'd opened his eyes when Henry put a hand on his shoulder to still him, and their eerie glassiness had terrified him. 

"Henry," he'd murmured, so different from his distracted mutterings moments earlier, the name heavy with relief.

"Yes," was all Henry had managed to say. "Yes, I'm here." Charles' skin was so hot, even through the fabric of his nightshirt. 

"Good," Charles had sighed, then lapsed into another of his rasping coughs, so much weaker than before. A hand against his forehead was met with sticky sweat and raging heat, and Charles made a small, broken sound at the touch. 

"Is there nothing you can do for him?" Henry had asked, looking up at the physician hovering on the other side of the bed. He was too tired for anger anymore. 

"We've bled him three times the last two days, Majesty," the hapless man admitted. "We fear he's too weak now to try again." 

 

"Henry." Charles' voice startles him back to the present, and he turns back to the bed. Charles is awake, properly this time, his eyes clearer and more focused. "Aren't you the King of England?"

"Yes," Henry says cautiously, set on edge by the question. Charles looks as ill as ever, but he doesn't appear to be delirious.

Charles' eyebrow rises pointedly, though his eyes drift shut once more. "Then you must have more important things to be doing right now."

Ah. 

"It's Sunday," he explains shortly. That doesn't mean much – he doesn't hold council on Sundays, but he does still have duties. Fortunately, he has advisors and officers who can fulfill those duties for him. 

Charles hums. "Have I missed Mass?" he asks, and Henry can't hold back a huff of laughter. 

"Yes, Charles, you've missed Mass," he says, crossing the room to return to the table and chair set up at the bedside. "It's well after noon. Evening, really." Night falls so early in the winter, it hardly makes a difference. "You've been very unwell today." 

Some days, he seems to be improving; others, he grows so feverish and weak that Henry's chest clenches tight in dread. Some days he shows no change either way, and somehow those days are by far the longest and most exhausting.

"You say that as though I haven't been very unwell every day." 

Rather than concede the point, Henry reaches for the bowl on the table. Charles opens his eyes at the sound of water being wrung from the cloth, and sighs. "Please, Henry, don't—"

"Quiet," Henry tells him, and wipes the sweat from his face with gentle, even strokes. 

Charles tries to pull away, but he hasn't the strength. "You're the _king,"_ he tries to insist, "you shouldn't be—"

"Did Christ Himself not wash the feet of His disciples?" Henry asks, and Charles quiets. "Just rest, Charles. Just rest." Henry strokes back the hair from his forehead and temples, traces the line of his jaw and the sweep of his throat with cool water, and tries not to look at how much more sharply his cheekbones stand out now than they did a month ago. This illness is draining him, and true winter has only just begun. Should he fall sick again in the cold winter months to come… Well. Precautions will have to be taken. 

Provided he survives this first.

Charles is asleep again within minutes, and Henry watches the play of firelight on his skin for long moments before standing and returning to the window.

♢

Today is going to be difficult.

Charles' eyes are half-lidded and glazed, and Henry can feel the heat of the fever even as he approaches the bed. His breaths are so shallow as to be barely perceptible, and though he tracks Henry's movements across the room, he shows no recognition.

The morning ends with Charles being stripped of his nightshirt and doused in cold water. It lowers the fever somewhat, but it also soaks the mattress, and he is moved to a cot by the fire until a new one can be brought in. 

There is nothing for Henry to do other than watch the physicians go about their work, but he remains until some crisis of governance calls him away from Charles’ restless, storm-tossed side.

When he returns, Charles is once more in his bed, and the linens smell faintly of lavender rather than strongly of sickness and sweat. But he's far too still, and far too pale — they must have bled him again — and he doesn't stir when Henry takes one of his limp, too-warm hands in both of his own and kneels by the bedside to pray. 

There’s too much to put into words, so he doesn’t even try, and simply lets it all spill over. Hopefully the Father can hear intention. Sorrow, remorse, desperation, _fear. Please,_ he thinks. _Please. If you love me at all, only spare him._ Please.

Catherine comes looking for him that night, presumably after he’d missed their evening meal, but doesn't say anything at first. Henry's knees ache like an old man's after many motionless hours on the stone floor, but Charles is still ravaged by fever and his breathing has once more grown ragged and pained, and Henry can't leave him alone like this, he can't. 

"Henry," Catherine says at last. "Your physicians are skilled, and his soul is in God's hands. He will be taken care of." 

He's so tired of acting as though his heart isn't being wrenched out of his chest, as though anguish doesn't threaten to consume him at the mere thought of Charles lying so close to death and so far beyond his reach. His voice is hoarse with disuse when he answers, and muffled by the bedding against which his forehead rests, but it is honest. "I can't let him die, Catherine. I couldn't bear it."

Catherine doesn't acknowledge his meaning, doesn't acknowledge his pain, his duty, his _guilt,_ but she surely understands. 

"Come to bed," she says at last. "There is no use in grief before its time, and he would not want you to put your own health at risk."

"In a moment," he says. She doesn't wait.

♢

"Henry?"

"Charles."

They've been playing this nonsensical game for a while now, with Charles rousing just enough to say his name and then slipping back into unconsciousness. This time, though, he fights, clinging to wakefulness with grim determination.

"Promise me something," he murmurs. 

Henry smooths his hair back from his forehead. "Anything." He means it.

Charles has to pause to catch what little breath he has to spare, every exhale sounding like a sigh, or a groan. "Promise me you won't be angry," he says at last, "when I—"

"No," Henry says fiercely. "No, Charles, you're going to get well again." He _must._ There is no alternative. He _will,_ because Henry _cannot do this without him._ Charles has been by his side from the beginning, and he cannot imagine a future in which he is not.

"Promise me," Charles says again, seeking Henry's gaze with tired eyes, and Henry will deny him nothing at this point if it brings him comfort. 

"I promise," he says, and lifts one of Charles’ hands to his lips in a bizarre inversion of tradition. “I promise.”

♢

Charles is curled on his side, fighting for breath, the bedclothes bunched down around his waist. He's sweated through his nightshirt again, and the fabric clings so closely to his skin that Henry can see the ribs in his back. He can see, too, how much it’s costing Charles just to keep breathing, but he sought out Henry's hand an hour ago, and he hasn't let go.

He's still holding on. He's still fighting.

♢

That night something tips, and Charles starts to cough more violently than ever before. He coughs and coughs and coughs, until he leans over the side of the bed to heave water and bile onto the floor, and chokes up ropes of blood-streaked phlegm into the handkerchiefs held out by the alarmed physicians.

Henry can't abide the sight — he can scarcely abide the _sound_ — and has to turn away and shut his eyes against the image branded into his mind, but he stays. 

Afterwards, Charles collapses, limp and grey and exhausted, and slumps back against the pillows with no more life than a doll.

Henry suffers the physicians to stay until they’ve cleaned everything up, and then he banishes them so that he can go once more to his knees on the floor like the penitent that he is. He prays harder that night than he's ever prayed in his life, and he begs, he _begs_ for Charles' life, he begs for mercy and forgiveness, and he doesn't try to stem the tears that rise, unbidden, to his eyes.

♢

Charles is still alive in the morning, but only just.

His skin hasn’t lost that awful grey tinge under its sickly sheen of sweat, and the shadows around his eyes are dark and swollen. 

He doesn’t move. He barely breathes. He is silent and still, but he is alive.

He is alive, and Henry stays, and watches, and waits.

♢

The fever breaks not that night but the next, and the first he knows of it is a low, hoarse voice slurring, “For God’s sake, Henry, remember you have a kingdom to run.” He lifts his head from the mattress, igniting chorus of aches and twinges in his neck and back, and sees Charles looking back at him, gaunt and absolutely drenched with sweat, but clear-eyed and blessedly, gloriously awake.

Henry barks out a disbelieving laugh, and then another, and then he’s laughing with unrestrained joy and Charles is smiling crookedly despite his obvious exhaustion and Henry, unmindful of sweat or stench or witnesses, takes his face in his hands and kisses him soundly on the forehead before pulling him up to his chest in a fierce embrace.

“I thought I’d lose you,” he says against Charles’ damp, unruly hair. “I was so afraid I’d lose you.”

Charles’ thin, shaking arms find their way around him, and hold on with what strength he has left. “Never,” he breathes. “Never.”

**Author's Note:**

> oh god i actually made you read that? incredible. tell me how trash i am on a scale of one to a jillion.


End file.
